If this were so; if the desert were 'home'; if our instincts were forged in the desert; to survive the rigours of the desert - then it is easier to understand why greener pastures pall on us; why possessions exhaust us, and why Pascal's imaginary man found his comfortable lodgings a prison.
Man's real home is not a house, but the Road, and that life itself is a journey to be walked on foot.
It's an old sailor's idea that every ship has a rope with one end made fast to her bows and the other held by the loved ones at home.
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